


dust

by topseunghyn



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1482991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topseunghyn/pseuds/topseunghyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock can't deal with the grief of his mother's death, let alone accept the fact that he lets the grief take over him. Jim lets him know he's not alone.</p><p>Based off of this http://vulcanacademy.tumblr.com/post/83008528640/buckees-fleurcrowns-i-wonder-how-he-felt</p>
            </blockquote>





	dust

**Author's Note:**

> I accumulated this lame drabble after reading that heartbreaking post I linked above and I think (?) I managed to actually write something.

Obliterated.

His home world and his train of thought. It's frenzied and a dark place and he doesn't want his crew to see his faltering breath- his heaving chest. He stares for a moment, at the place his mother should have been- it's taunting him to feel and his conscious tells him to keep calm. It's illogical for her to return- she's gone and the mission must go on.

What mission?

His home world is destroyed- he has no home but the comfort of the Enterprise that surrounds him- it's overwhelming but he'd rather be here. He dawns the weight of his mother's death on himself- how he couldv'e thought of beaming down sooner, how he could've brought his family to a safer place to be beamed out of- his emotions beat his logic and acted on pure fear. There's no reason to keep staring at the blank transporting pad, he can let his reaching arm down- he has to pull it together, for the sake of the crew. _Logic precedes emotion_ \- he tells himself this as he tries to gather his thoughts, but the staring isn't helping. His crew- helpless and speechless are overwhelming and he doesn't want to look up, he doesn't want to look at anyone. When his arm falls, so does his heart and the tiny bit of hope he had left in him. He doesn't want to step on her pad, for there's still some thought of an irrational miracle that might occur and she'll return, like somehow- even though he knows it could never happen- the transporter delayed her beam, he counts to three and she's still not there.

Reason whispers in his ear as he steps forward- waiting for her return is useless, illogical, and a waste of time- life goes on and the crew should come first, because they're in the present, and she's a thing of the past. But no, he won't let himself believe his own conscious- he's fighting the voices in his head because right now it's not about what's right- it's about his mother- the woman who gave birth to him- the woman who's sacrificed so much just to make sure he grew up alright- and here he was. He hesitates momentarily- turning on his heels back to the pad, leaning down to touch the place she should be. It's cold and barren- like her memory in his mind. He looks up at his father who's barely fazed- yet somewhat bothered and Spock can't distinguish if it's because of his actions or the loss of his wife. He takes a last breath before standing up again- and he's never hated logic more in his life.

**

She's still lingering in his mind- enough so that he almost killed his first officer. No matter what he does, he's always brought back to the transporter room and he's still so afraid to touch the place she should have beamed on. He comprehends the littlest things- he retains information faster than others, he stores it all in places unknown and it's amazing- the way he thinks- the way he's practically programmed to not feel at times, yet the fact that his mother will never return or speak his name again, is too difficult to retain. It doesn't compute for him, it won't. He thinks _why her?_ There's no logic in his thoughts- it's a storm up there and it's relentless so it seems. He wants nothing to do with logic- death isn't logical. It's a reminder that there is pain and suffering in this world- life isn't just the simplicity of living and what's right and wrong- it's tangible and painful, full of sorrow and he finally understands what it's like to be human- so much so that he almost forgets what he stands for.

Life is bliss- but he still manages to wear a facade that encumbers what he truly is- what he's always been- half human. Right now- there's no shame left in him.

He wonders if his mother would want him to be this way, if she'd want him to wallow in the mourning of her death, or if she'd want him to conquer his emotions, as always, and fight for the crew- to follow orders. He's calm when he thinks of her- only riled up when he thinks too hard, which he can't help. He's bothered by the pre-dispositions that come with death, he fears he's let them consume him- still, he  _wants_ logic to win, because he can't stand another second of his grief.

He should return to the bridge- there's nothing he wants more than to ensure the safety of his crew, to let them know this hasn't got the best of him, to pretend it didn't at least- even though they knew already.

"Spock."

He turns to find Jim at the entry of the transporter room, concern written all over his face.

"Talk to me, Spock."

"I have no comment-"

"I don't need a comment, I need to know how you feel."

He lifts a brow because he's trying to conceal the fact that he's let this take him over, like he hadn't felt anything at all. "I don't feel anything."

"Bullshit."

"I will not stand here and be cursed at."

"I'm not asking you to, I'm telling you to tell me how you feel- don't make me say that's an order."

"Captain." Those words burn at the tip of his tongue when he remembers he's given up captaincy- he no longer has a say so, he can longer send Jim away and even if he did, he'd find a way back because he's James T. Kirk; James T. Kirk doesn't believe in no-win scenarios. He wants to say more but he can almost taste the copper in his mouth from biting his tongue too hard.

"I can see it Spock, it's written all over you- you suck at being subtle." Jim smiles and taps Spock's shoulder because maybe he needs that- maybe he needs physical contact, a reminder to let him know he's not alone. "I know how it feels to lose a parent- regardless whether I was born or not. I had to grow up without a real dad, just a deadbeat stepfather. Your mother- I know I've never met her but hey, she raised a hell of a Vulcan."

Spock likes the fact that he states him as Vulcan, yet the moisture beneath his eyes reminds him he's everything but Vulcan. It's a painful reminder to realize he's everything against what he stands for, a notion he simply cannot control, yet somehow, Jim still sees him as a prideful Vulcan- that alone restores him.

"Tell me something Spock," he sighs and crosses his arms, "does it hurt?"

"Does what hurt?"

"That lump in your throat? Or the tongue you've been biting? Or do your eyes sting? Because they don't look too dry to me."

He checks for a lump in his throat, because Jim must be out of his mind but come to think of it, there's a sore pain coming from his throat when he swallows, and his tongue sends a surge of pain when he thinks about it. He doesn't want to answer but Jim already knows.

"And how does this feel?" He asks when he slides his hands down Spock's arms until he reaches the space between his fingers, hoping Spock has that same feeling when their fingers intertwine.

His hands are rough, like sandpaper, yet somehow it's the most soothing feeling in the world but Spock doesn't move an inch. He only watches for Jim to move again, and when the palm of Jim's hand rests on the back of his neck, he shudders a moment because the _touch_ is almost too much. He takes a step back but it's pointless because Jim follows, almost pushes him until his back is brushing against the wall of the transporter.

He wipes the dust off of Spock's face, the redness of the Vulcan debris falls to the floor and Spock watches it disappear into the ground- the last remnants of his home world, gone- just like his mother. Jim takes some in his hand, letting Spock feel it, just barely touching it with the tips of his trembling fingers, like it's sacred and endangered. Jim watches his lip tremble and chest falter before he lets the dust sink between his fingers- leaving Spock's fingers brushing the palm of his hand.

"She's not coming back Spock." His lips are almost too close to his fingers, he's guiding Spock's hand up his chest until Spock lets go and lets his arm fall.

He's distant and only growing further- his eyes are focused on nothing, but Jim likes how the glare of the lights in the room reflect on his brown eyes.

"She is not coming back," Spock echoes silently, as if suddenly realizing it, suddenly understanding, like Jim's words were enough to make him comprehend. He looks up, his eyes full of wonder and he stares, like he's just noticing Jim- like he's come out of a strange coma. The pain is still there, but it's a thing of the past- you can't relive the past and you sure can't fix it. Logic only whispers that it's time to move on.

There's only something in the way- and his name is James T. Kirk.

"We all have to deal with heartbreak- Vulcan or not," he's smiling because he can't help it. He can't help the fact that Spock is incredibly beautiful when his emotions are prominent, his flaws are his imperfections and hell, aren't they the most intriguing things- Vulcan emotions. Spock furrows his brow and curls his finger around one of Jim's loose belt loops.

For a moment, Jim wants to know if this is Spock- if this is the same Spock that almost killed him two hours ago- he wonders if he would have if his father wouldn't have stopped him. He has to think twice before making the next move because he knows what it's like to be rejected, to be hated, to not be wanted at all- he's grown up with that feeling. But when Spock squeezes his hand and curls his belt loop tighter, it's a warm feeling of acceptance, something extraordinary, because it's Spock- and he wouldn't choose to feel this way about anyone else. Yet he still wonders if this is his logical equilibrium failing him- his emotions winning for a moment, a moment he wants to feel loved. Displacement for the emptiness he feels for his mother. But hell, he'll take it, he'll take it any day on any ship.

 "Is that you in there?" Jim asks, pressing his forehead against Spock's and pushing his hand into his against the wall.

"Jim-" he whispers back. But he doesn't want to answer- he doesn't want Jim to really know he's okay with all of this- if his toleration of the contact wasn't enough already.

"It's not so bad to feel every now and then is it?"

"It's hardly bad Jim- rather an unfortunate distraction."

"I like you better when you're not talking-"

He's rather taken back by the fact that Spock is responsive to his lips on his because for a moment, he's surprised and has to catch up. He's pulled in by his belt loop until he's as close as he's ever been and if he's pulled any closer- he just might become one with him. He likes the way Spock lets air out of his nose when he needs it, or how the back of his throat hitches when he bites Spock's lip, even more so when he lets him leave a trail of kisses down the side of his cheek until they're rested against each other.

It's almost surreal and he's afraid to open his eyes because he doesn't want this to be a dream, but when he does, Spock's eyes are closed too and he wants to dig into it- he wants to know what he's thinking, but he'll take being wrapped in his arms. The heaving of his chest coming to a calm is soothing and he has to pull away to get him to say something.

"We should return to the bridge," he whispers, almost in a tone of hoping Jim will say no so they can stay here longer.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine-" he hesitates, a burning memory of similar dialogue with his mother almost creates the same longing feeling in his gut, but it's passive this time because Jim is there. He curls his fingers between Jim's because he's the polar opposite of fine, he just doesn't want to say it because admitting his feelings burns in his mouth. 

"Are you sure?" Jim asks, because he can't risk another meltdown.

"I am-" he nods again.  _Not._  

"Good, I wouldn't want you any other way," he smiles and rubs the last smear of red sand from his science blue tunic, the last memory of his home world now floating in the air, landing on the pad his mother should have been on, the pad Spock still can't manage to step on, or look away from, the last remnants of his home.

But he's fine.


End file.
